The Part I Can't Tell
by Cassandra Starr
Summary: Ilse's been keeping secrets her whole life. But when she's faced with a new burden, who can she tell? Basically my version of why Ilse came to Priapia. Please read and review! Rated high.
1. Secrets

"Ilse, get up! You'll be late!"

_Ugh. _Another day of utter shit. I want to stay curled under the blankets forever, but if Mama comes upstairs, jerks me out of bed... she can't see how I am now. So I sit up, slowly so I don't get dizzy. That's been happening a lot. Button up my school dress even though it's tight and painful against my chest, wash my face, brush my teeth, and hurry downstairs.

"Hurry and eat while it's still hot," Mama tells me, pointing to my plate. Bread, tea, and slices of peach. Those are fine. But... _oh god_... there are two fried eggs.

_Can't can't can't._

Mama moves behind me with the hairbrush. "Sit down and eat, I'll do your braids."

I wolf down everything but the eggs and jump up, grabbing my satchel from its spot by the door. Maybe I can be gone before she looks at the table...

"Ilse Katharina!"

_Shit._

"You sit yourself down and finish these eggs!"

"Mama, I'm not hungry, really!"

"We do not waste food in this house! Besides, your health has been so poor, you ought to be eating eggs every day."

"They make me feel sick!" I'm whining now, a dangerous thing to do, but I can't help it.

"Ilse..." When her voice gets that edge I know resistance is futile.

Ten minutes later I'm out the door, a horrible taste in my mouth and a scowl on my face.

"Wait up!"

Wendla Bergmann is running up the street after me.

I don't want company, but I can't run and I'm too tired to argue with her. We fall in step, and she grabs my hand, grinning.

"Where have you been, Ilse?"

"Don't know what you mean," I growl.

She gives me an "I'm-not-stupid" look. "You never come to play anymore and you're so quiet at school! We miss you."

So I'm missed. I squeeze Wendla's hand, returning her grin, and we start talking about school and the boys. It's going to be a good morning; I just know it.

But then everything goes wrong. A horrible feeling crawls through my stomach up into my throat, a feeling I've grown to know so very well. I yank my hand away from Wendla's and fall to my knees over some bushes, bringing up those stupid eggs. I expect Wendla to run away, but I feel her pull my braids away from my face, hold my shoulders steady as I retch and retch.

Finally I'm done, leaning back into her. "Sorry," I mutter. I think I might cry, I'm that ashamed. She shouldn't have seen me that way, so weak and exposed.

"Why would you be sorry? You can't help being ill." Wendla pulls me to my feet and picks up my satchel. "I'll walk you home."

"No, I just need to rinse my mouth out and I'll be fine."

"Ilse, you're not fine!" Wendla cries. "You should go home!"

"My stomach's sensitive, my breakfast didn't agree with me!" I'm pleading now, desperate not to face Mama.

Wendla looks shocked at my attitude, then seems to understand. "Are you worried about falling behind?"

_Well... _I nod, glad for an excuse.

"I'll bring you the homework tonight, don't worry about that! And if it's too hard we can help you, me and Thea and Martha and Anna." She's so genuine, so sweet and concerned. I want to tell her... but no.

"Thanks, Wendla," I say, taking my satchel back from her. "That's... thank you. You better hurry, you'll be late. I can get home myself."

She gives me a last smile and wave and runs off.

I make my way home, slow and defeated, ignoring the questions passersby thrust at me. "Shouldn't you be in school?" "Why so serious?" "Does your mother know you're not in class?"

My feet find the familiar walkway, my hands turn the knob.

Mama hears me come in and hurries to the mudroom, wiping her hands on her apron. "Ilse, what are you doing home?"

"I got ill on the way." I don't dare look at her as she feels my forehead.

"No fever. Does your throat hurt?"

"No. I feel fine." Except for the headache that never goes away, the weariness that weighs down my limbs, the tenderness and swelling of my chest...

"What's the matter, then?" She's worried now, unable to believe there is a malady she cannot diagnose.

"I told you, Mama. Eggs make me sick now."

She looks suspicious, but lets it go. "Hm. Well, go up to your room and rest until lunch."

I go upstairs and into the bathroom, brushing my teeth and rinsing my mouth over and over until the harsh, burning taste of bile goes away, before entering my room and throwing myself across my bed.

I can't tell anyone the secret. I thought I would only ever have to keep one secret; Papa's secret, the beating and touching. But now there's a new secret to keep bottled up inside me and I think keeping it will tear me apart.

_I'm dying._


	2. Playing Pirates

"Teams!" Melchior bellows. You'd think he was addressing a whole band of wild pirates, instead of me, Moritz, and Wendla.

We're back in our clearing, ready to play. We play our game with the others sometimes, but it just feels right with only us, the originals.

Wendla's jumping up and down, too excited to hold it in. "Boys against girls! Boys against girls!"

Melchior puts on his deep thinking face for a moment, then shakes his head. "It wouldn't be fair, it's harder for you and Ilse to climb trees because of your dresses. We'll split off." Melchior's eying Wendla; I'm not surprised by what he says next. "I'll take Wendla, because I can run faster than Moritz and Ilse can run faster than Wendla."

Moritz nods solemnly, but I know he's glad; we're a good team.

"Moritz and I get the east fort, you and Wendla have the west," I tell Melchior. The east fort is where I left my weapons from last time.

We all put our hands in the middle and recite, "I do solemnly swear to abide by the most sacred rules of pirates; a pirate I am and a pirate I shall always be." Now we have to go to our forts. The rules of pirates are simple: nothing sharp, no hitting each other in the head, and don't kick the boys between their legs.

"Come, on, Moritz!" I grab his hand and drag him along, laughing. It's been a week since I threw up in front of Wendla and I'm having a good day so far. I can actually run around, and my headache is only a slightly nagging ache. For the first time in a month I feel free. Our fort is a lean-to made of tree branches, a sort of wigwam. We crawl inside and sit cross-legged facing each other. Time to talk tactics.

"One of us distracts them," Moritz suggests, "and the other goes and steals their treasure."

"Melchior and Wendla will probably do the same thing, though. I've got a better idea; we wait for them to come to us, then jump them!"

Moritz smiles that crooked smile I love so much. "That's perfect, Ilse!"

I jam a wooden sword into my sash, and Moritz tucks his into his belt, sitting up straighter. He looks so fierce; I want to tell him everything. I want to tell him and know he can keep me safe, my brave pirate lord.

_No. No no no! Are you crazy? You can't say it, you can't. Not to Moritz. You'll scare him._

I don't want him scared, I want him fearless and strong. So I'll settle for a telling him part of it.

I take a deep breath and say, "Moritz, I have to go away."

"What do you mean?"

"I have to go somewhere else, I'm not sure where."

"Why? For how long?"

_Don't look so afraid, Moritz. You'll make me change my mind._

I can't look at him now; I trace a picture in the dirt with my fingernail, focusing on the grime disappearing underneath my nail. "I'm not sure how long I'll be. It depends on where I go. Not too long."

"But why?"

"I can't tell you. I'm sorry, Moritz."

"Ilse, don't you trust me?" he whispers.

_Oh, god._

"Of course I do, more than anyone! I just... I can't, okay? I just can't." Those aren't tears in my eyes, are they? Please, God, not in front of Moritz! But it's too late for pleading, because they're already running down my cheeks and soaking the collar of my dress. I pull my knees to my chest and curl over them, sobbing, making stupid little gasping noises. Crying is what Thea and Anna and Wendla do when they scrape their knees climbing trees or get scolded in class. But not me; I don't cry.

Much.

I think I'm going to die from hurt and humiliation, but then Moritz is scooting closer to me and putting his arm around me, squeezing my shoulders. "It's okay, it's okay," he murmurs; and somehow, with him holding me, it is.

I wipe my nose on my sleeve and mutter, "I hate crying."

He nods and we sit until Moritz pokes me in the side. "Ilse?"

"What?"

"You're... you're going to come back, right?" he asks. "From wherever it is you're going."

"Of course I will, stupid! I wouldn't be able to stay anywhere, I haven't the money." Money... _Shit._ I forgot about money.

Moritz may be worst in his class, but he's smart in other ways, because he asks, "Do you have enough money to get wherever you're going?"

I shake my head no, trying not to blush at the major hole in my plan.

"I have money!" Moritz cries. "My grandparents and my uncle gave me some for Christmas. You can have it."

"Moritz, I couldn't take it, it wouldn't be fair!"

"I don't mind," says Moritz, "as long as you promise me you'll come back. Will you?"

I can't help grinning now. "On my honor as a pirate."

We shake on it, and he leaves his hand in mine for three extra heartbeats. He opens his mouth slightly like he wants to say something more, then closes it. Those soft lips...

_Now or never._

And I'm leaning forward, and I think he is too. I close my eyes, but just before our lips meet I hear Wendla's tell-tale giggle.

Moritz pulls away and puts a finger to his lips, drawing his sword. I do the same and we creep to the entrance. Melchior and Wendla are shadows in the bushes, trying to determine if the fort is empty.

"One..." Moritz breathes into my ear. "Two... THREE!"

We leap into the open, waving our swords. Melchi and Wendla run into the clearing and we're soon engaged in a fierce duel, me against Melchior and Moritz against Wendla.

It's nice to be able to fight something I can see. And to know I can win.

***

The afternoon is almost over; we'll have to go home soon. But for now there's still time. We're sitting in a circle by the east fort, passing around Melchior's canteen and eating the cookies Frau Bergmann sent with Wendla.

"Please tell your mama thank you for the cookies," I say to her, and the boys grunt in agreement.

Wendla nods, and I notice for the first time the strip of cloth she has tied around her head. It's not the headband she usually uses for pirates; it's roughly woven, but very intricate, purple and gold and red threads woven together.

"That's pretty, Wendla," I tell her, reaching out to touch it.

"Thank you, one of the peddlers from Priapia gave it to me."

Melchior stops cramming cookies into his mouth for a moment to speak. "The artists' colony?"

"Yes, some of them came around last week selling crafts and medicine and all that," Wendla replies.

"Medicines? I hope your mama didn't buy any of them!" laughs Melchior. "They're probably just honey and water."

"Mama wouldn't buy any of his wares, but Ina bought some medicine for Adele's earache and it worked; her fever went down an hour after she took it."

"They have doctors in Priapia?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

"I think so." Wendla shrugs. "I didn't ask too much about it, because Mama says I'm not to go there."

"My mama too," Moritz says, nodding. "She says they're pagans and a bad influence."

"Yes, but she says the same thing about me, and I'm safe, aren't I?" God, I love to make him blush. "What was the peddler like?" I ask Wendla.

"Strange, but nice. He gave me the cloth even though Mama yelled at him for being on our property."

Melchior, Moritz, and Wendla start talking about other things: what we'll do together when school lets out, Thea's new kitten, where Melchior got his canteen. But I don't talk, just sit there thinking hard.

Priapia. Nice, strange people. Bad influences. Pagans.

_Doctors._

I think I know where to go now, and it sounds like I'll fit right in.


	3. A Nighttime Visit

"Moritz?" I keep tapping on his window, but maybe he forgot; maybe he's asleep. "Come one, Moritz..." I don't like being out here. Only bad things happen in the dark.

Just when I'm ready to leave the window slides up and Moritz sticks his head out, hair even wilder than usual. "Sorry, I didn't hear you." He pulls an envelope from his pajama pocket and hands it to me. "Here."

I open it and pull out a few notes, and hand the rest back. "I won't be needing much, I'm not going far." Just enough to pay the doctors there.

Moritz chews this over, dropping to his knees so our eyes are level. "If it isn't far, take me with you."

_So brave._

What would be so terrible about taking someone with me? Having someone to help me? But if it's as bad as I think...

_Can't hurt Moritz._

"I'm sorry," I mumble, "but I have to do this on my own."

"What about your parents?" Moritz asks. "Won't they be furious?"

"Papa's out of town. Mama's going to be really angry, but maybe she won't tell Papa."

If she tells him he'll kill me, simple as that.

"I should go now. Thanks, Moritz. I'll pay you back as soon as I can." I start to turn away, but he reaches of the window and grabs my shoulder.

"You promised you'd come back. Don't forget it."  
"On my honor as a pirate. I remember," I tell him. Suddenly I can't hold it in; I reach through the window and throw my arms around him. "You're the best friend I ever had, Moritz Stiefel," I whisper fiercely. And it's true. When I was angry at Wendla and the girls there was always Moritz, ready to swim in the river or run races or just talk. He never wanted me to be anyone other than me. And whoever I was, he accepted me without question.

He hugs me back just as tightly. Then we pull away, and when I look at him he smiles and I know—I just know—this is the right thing to do.

I lean over the windowsill, stretching towards his mouth. He leans forwards and our lips glide together, moving gently in and out. It's like the New Year firecrackers exploding in my stomach, and I feel a want that I've never felt before, a need for him to touch me everywhere, the places I know and the ones I don't dare explore.

But every moment must come to an end.

"Moritz!" We break away hastily at the sound of Frau Stiefel's voice and Moritz pushes me down so I'm crouched below the window ledge. I hear the door open. "What are you doing up? And why is the window open?"

"I couldn't sleep, Mama, and the room felt so stuffy. I needed a breath of fresh air."

"Well, alright then. Back to bed." The bed creaks slightly as Moritz crawls back in; above me, the window slams down. After his mama's gone Moritz taps the window and I jump up to look at him again.

He puts his hands to the glass, and I press mine against them. There's a sheet of glass between us but I _feel_ him.

"Can't open the window," Moritz mouths.

I mouth back, "Okay. I have to go."

"Pirate's honor."

"I know." I pull away and smile at him, wave one last time before stepping away into the night.

I have a long night of walking ahead of me. My coat won't be any match for the night wind that whips through the forest. But, by reaching up to touch my lips every so often, I stay warm through the night.


	4. Answers That Wound

"Girl with angry eyes!"

I pause in making my way through the camp.

"Yes, you."

Slowly turning, I face a tall, muscular man holding a guitar. "What do you want?" I spit.

At home I'd get slapped for that kind of lip, but he looks almost amused at my tone. "Nothing, you just looked lost. And out of place."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

_So much for fitting in._

"Little girls don't often come wandering through here. What are you looking for?"

He seems genuinely concerned and I really am lost, so I say, "I heard you have doctors here. Where would I find one?"

"Over this way." He leads me through the rows of caravans and small cottages. "I'm Christian, by the way."

"I'm Ilse."

"Ilse? That's a pretty name." Christian fingers the neck of his guitar. "I think I'd like to write a song about you."

"Why would you want to do a stupid thing like that?" The words are out before I can stop them, but Christian just laughs.

"Why? Because you fascinate me, Fraulein Ilse."

I can't help blushing; it makes me nervous when men pay attention to me. "I'm nothing special."

"I disagree," Christian replies, stopping in front of a cottage with a green serpent painted on the door and knocking.

A woman in a red dress and apron opens the door. She doesn't look too different from my mama.

"What is it?"

"New patient for you, Abigail. Meet Ilse."

Abigail looks me over and nods. "Alright then. Away, Christian."

Christian winks and runs off; I'm sorry to see him go now that I'm left with this strange woman.

She ushers me inside and into a kitchen. It could be any kitchen, but there's a clean white sheet spread on the table and bunches of herbs hanging above the stove.

"Sit," Abigail tells me, pointing to the table. When I'm settled on the edge she asks, "So what brings you here?"

Staring at my hands I whisper, "I... I think I'm dying."

There's a trace of sarcasm in her voice when she speaks. "Really? And why would you think that?" Her eyebrows are raised; I know she doesn't believe me.

"I'm always hungry, but then I can't keep the food down. I get these headaches, and when I stand up too quickly I'm dizzy. I'm tired all the time and my... chest is swollen and it hurts and..." my voice grows even lower. "I've been missing my monthlies."

"How old are you?"

"Thirteen and a half."

Abigail stares at me for a moment, then says, "Lift up your dress."

"What?!"

Sighing, she lifts my skirt up to just below my breasts. "Hold it there." I'm too surprised to say anything as she probes my abdomen, running her hands over my stomach and gently pressing on it. "How many times did you miss your monthlies?"

"Two, maybe three times."

Abigail straightens and moves to the stove, pulling down herbs and throwing them into a kettle. "You aren't very far along, thank God for small blessings."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're with child." Her voice is harsh, almost accusatory.

This is impossible. Married women get with child by their husband, I know that much. But... how does it even happen?

_This is not happening to me._

I'm shaking my head over and over, trying to get her words out of my head. "Frau Abigail, you must be mistaken. How could that be?"

The anger in her eyes melts away as Abigail whispers, "Little girl, didn't your mama ever tell you what happens to girls who lie with men?"

Men...

_Papa._

I leap off the table and throw up into the sink.

_No. God, you can't have let him. Not after all that he's done, he can't have..._

I slide down onto my knees, shaking all over.

Abigail pulls me up and hands me a cup of water. "Rinse and spit." I do as I'm told and let her support me back to the table.

"I think there is more to this than a moment of bad judgment in a hayloft." Abigail forces my chin up so our eyes are level. "Child, who did this to you?"

I squeeze my eyes shut so I don't have to look at her as I whisper, "My father."

"Oh my God." When I open my eyes again I see she's crying softly.

It scares me to see her crying over this, so much that I start crying too, and Abigail reaches out and pulls me to her. I rest my head on her shoulder and just cry the way Mama never lets me, letting myself be rocked, letting her rub my back and kiss the top of my head.

Why is a stranger doing this and not my mother?

When I can breathe again I pull away from her embrace and ask, "What do I do? I can't do it, not when the baby's..."

Abigail wipes her eyes and squares her shoulders. "No, you can't. You don't have to." She takes a clean rag from a drawer and points me into a small bedroom. "I have something that will make your monthlies come back." Handing me the rag she says, "You know what to do."

When I return to the kitchen she's pouring a dark, steaming liquid from the kettle into a mug. "Drink this. It's not going to be pretty, but it'll do the trick."

"It's going to make the baby go away?" I ask, taking a cautious sip. It's disgusting, but I'll do anything. Abigail nods, and I begin taking quick swallows, trying to hurry the process along.

_Please, God. Forgive me._

Wait.

A fire brews deep in my heart, an anger that I want to feed and feed.

_I don't need forgiveness! This is your fault. You could have stopped him, you could have protected me. You know what? I don't think you're even real. Because if you were you wouldn't have let this happen._

My stomach's beginning to cramp. I manage to gasp out, "I think I'm an atheist."

Abigail laughs. "You've the right." She smoothes my hair back from my face. "So what now?"

"Huh?" Ugh, it_ hurts._

"What do you plan on doing next? You can't go home now."

"Of course I can! I have to, I promised!" I cry, jerking away from her touch.

Abigail just shakes her head. "Ilse, you're not a child. If your father doesn't change his ways – and something tells me he won't – this will keep happening to you."

I don't want to listen, but I know she's right. "I haven't anywhere else," I whimper.

"You could always stay here," says Abigail. "Priapia isn't the best place for a young girl, but no one will hurt you that way."

Leaving home. No more nights lying stiff under the covers, waiting, knowing what will come next. No more Mama leaving the room when Papa beats me instead of stopping him. No more school, no more playing pirates, no more Anna or Thea or Martha or Wendla.

No more Moritz.

There is no right decision. Either way I'll be broken. But maybe if I stay here, grow up, I can go back for him.

"Ilse?"

I feel the familiar flow of blood starting up; Abigail has saved me this time. But what about next time? What if this happens again and I find out too late for her to help me?

_I'm sorry, Moritz. I really am. I want to stay with you, I swear. But I can't. _

"Thank you, Frau Abigail. I – if you'll have me, I'd like to stay in Priapia."

Abigail smiles softly. "Good girl."

* * *

Think it's over? Keep lookout for an update!


	5. The Letter

"Christian!" I'm running so hard along the road that when he stops I run right into him.

"In a hurry, Fraulein Ilse?" he asks casually.

"Very funny," I growl, massaging my arm. "Listen, are you going into town today?"

Christian holds up his basket. "Yes, indeed, to spread our wares to the outside world."

"Then will you do something for me? And no joking around, because this is _very_ important." The smile slides off of Christian's face as he nods; something in my eyes has frightened him. I try to put this thought out of my mind and hand him a sheet of paper held shut with a wax imprint of my thumb. "Take this to the boy's school past the church and the blacksmith's. When the boys come out to recess, ask for Moritz Stiefel. Skinny, crazy hair, and really twitchy. If he isn't there you can ask Melchior Gabor to give it to him, but don't let anyone else at it. Have you got all of that?"

Christian nods again. "I'll guard it with my life."

"Thanks, Christian."

"It is my pleasure, Fraulein Ilse," he says, bowing. As he makes his way down the road he calls back to me, "I'm still working on your song!"

"Get on with you!" I shout in reply. My thoughts are still on the piece of paper, on the words I put down so carefully and the tears I kept from spoiling the ink.

_I hope this helps, Moritz. I hope this makes you not hate me._

***

_Dear Moritz,_

_By now you're probably wondering where I am. I'm safe, if that's any consolation. I should tell you straight off, though, I won't be coming back._

_I know what I said. But the thing is, pirates don't really have honor. Sometimes they have to break promises to survive. I wish I could explain, but it's not something you put in a letter. I'll tell you someday._

_When I'm older I'll come back for you and we'll run away. I don't know where we'll go, but I guess that isn't important as long as we're together. Maybe we'd even get married. Who knows? Maybe we won't like that kind of thing, but maybe we will. Maybe we'll want it if it's for the two of us. Or maybe we'll just be pirates together, wandering around looking for adventures. Whatever happens we'll see each other again, I promise. That's a promise I'll keep. I can only hope you'll be there when I come back._

_There's a lot I'd like to tell you that can't be written down. All I can say is that you were a better friend than I'll ever have again, and a better friend than I ever deserved. And that I miss you._

_Don't forget me, Moritz. _

_Your friend forever,_

_Ilse_

* * *

And we come to the end. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed this story.


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